


Be Careful Where You Land

by maderr



Category: James Bond (Movies), MacGyver (TV), The Mummy Series
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Crossover Pairing, M/M, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-21
Updated: 2011-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-15 20:36:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maderr/pseuds/maderr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Bond crashes in a desert, and wakes up to a situation equal parts normal and not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Careful Where You Land

**Author's Note:**

> This pairing probably makes absolutely no sense. I can, apparently, be talked into writing almost anything. I hope it amuses :3
> 
> I never write a particular Bond, figuring everyone has their own favorite.

James woke with a start, but long years of hard-learned lessons kept him from moving, even if holding still wasn't his first choice.

He stared up at the ceiling, uncomprehending for a moment. Usually, he was not so slow. A moment later his mind began to work, and he realized it was not a ceiling at which he stared. Of all things, it was a tent.

He had woken in stranger places, to be sure, however, those usually came with logical explanations. At present, he could recall no good or bad reason he should be lying in a tent.

A quick, subtle examination proved his limbs to be unsecured. So, the chances he was a prisoner lessened slightly. The temperature, the very feel of the air, told him he was in a desert.

There it was, and obviously his landing had been a bit rougher than anticipated, if it had taken him so long to recall his situation. Next time, he would not be quite so decisive in choosing to shoot the pilot. He was apparently still learning the hard way that pilots always had tricks up their sleeves.

Nasty tricks that apparently landed him in the desert, somewhere.

Tired of lying still, James sat up—immediately regretting the way the tent spun around, but sitting and dizzy was better than lying down and holding still.

As sudden as that, he felt eyes upon him.

Glancing up, he immediately snapped to the presence that must have been there all the while, but which he had not felt until this moment. When, he realized, his watcher had chosen to let his presence be known.

Beauty did not impress James. It was, like all things, a tool. Particularly useful, particularly deadly. The man was beautiful, one of the more remarkable men James had seen, and he had slept with men whose beauty was lauded the world over. He knew men and women alike, more than he could count, who would kill for the dark hair and eyes, the lines of cheeks and jaws, the way those tattoos seemed natural and all the more beautiful for it.

So, no, the beauty did not impress him.

The stillness, however, intrigued him.

James detested holding still. He could do it, had done it, for hours unending and minutes that stretched on for years. He was among her Majesty's best, even if her Majesty and the estimable M loathed that fact. He could do plenty of things he did not enjoy, though holding still was particularly high on that list.

This man, however, held so still James could not be quite certain he was breathing. If not for the sharpness of those eyes, the curve of his mouth that could have meant nothing or everything, James would have taken him for a statue.

"It seems to be a habit of your people," the man suddenly said, nothing but his mouth and eyes moving, "to climb into the sky, and fall back out of it. Why you cannot keep your feet on the ground, I do not know."

James stood. "I hope I did not land on anyone or anything of importance."

"Close," the man replied. "I would say the horses will never be the same, but they are used to crazy men falling from the sky." He stood, so slowly and lightly that it drove James mad. Perversely, the man reminded him of snow, the way it appeared to drift slowly down and settle lightly. Snow never seemed to hurry, save in a blizzard, and those came so hard and fast, one was left reeling.

"I thank you for the rescue," James said. "I am happy to arrange recompense, of course, especially if your generosity would extend to seeing me to the sort of civilization to which I am accustomed."

The man nodded. "It will be done, though it will take a few days. We have other concerns at present, and those must be attended before your dilemma can be addressed."

James realized, belatedly, that the man's English was perfect. His accent moved with it, and he wondered if that was natural, or artifice. The cynical, realistic voice said it was artifice—people underestimated those who spoke a second language with a distinct accent.

But, cynicism warred with instinct, which said this man had little patience for artifice.

"I thank you," James repeated. "I do not suppose any of my belongings survived my fall?"

Again, the man nodded, and moved toward the tent opening, calling out in a language that fell far more elegantly from his lips than the English. James did not know the dialect, though it was not so strange he could not follow bits of it. Old-fashioned, he thought suddenly. The way the man spoke was old-fashioned.

Not that he knew much about such languages. He'd stopped after the Russian; too much else to do between bullets and falling out of booby-trapped airplanes.

He was pulled from his thoughts as the man drew close to him again—and James was left reeling, for he had sworn the man moved slowly, and yet he was across the tent in a moment. "You had a weapon," the man said. "An impressive piece, but I will not be returning it quite yet. When you are returned to civilization more familiar?"

James nodded, seeing no reason to argue the point. He seemed to be in very little danger here, if the desert and this strange man was all he had to worry about. Though, he wondered if and when people would come looking for him.

By sheer habit, he looked at his forearm, the old scars where tracking devices had been infrequently placed. None this time, and M was probably hissing and spitting about it—or quite possibly she was taking a nice, leisurely tea and dreaming of his corpse drying in the desert sun. One could not always gauge M.

"I am Ardeth," the man said, watching him.

James found himself staring back, and feeling slightly puzzled. The eyes were dark, hard to look away from, and they held…something…an awareness that was similar to his own. There was such a thing as too much knowledge, and extraneous knowledge weighed heavy. This man bore such a weight, James knew. But there was something more in those dark eyes, the same something that had let him go unnoticed until he chose to be seen and felt.

"Bond," he offered belatedly. "James Bond."

"You seem largely recovered from your fall," Ardeth said, and a hint of a smile ghosted across his lips. "Food will be here shortly, as well as fresh clothes. I shall return, and we will talk."

Then he was gone.

James realized abruptly, and with no little annoyance, that it was suddenly much easier to breathe.

He took another look around the tent, but saw nothing that he had not seen the first time. It was relatively small, though not stifling. There was his bed, rugs upon the ground, a small stove to fend off the chill nights, and a lantern upon a small, low table. Were it a room proper, it might have belonged to a monk, save for the stove. That was a might too creature comfort for monks.

Resuming the bed, he sat and thought of the job recently completed. He'd successfully destroyed the incriminating documents, and dealt accordingly with the double agent. Nasty business that, but he had dealt with worse. Far worse. All had been going quite until, of course, the bloody pilot. Perhaps his host had a point upon keeping one's feet on the ground.

Hopefully, word had reached M that the job was completed. He wondered if they would launch a search to find him, or cheerfully stamp his file MIA. He rather thought the later, and it almost drew a chuckle. At least he'd had the good sense to finish the job before stranding himself in the desert. It was always deucedly annoying to strand one's self in the middle of nowhere while still in the middle of a mess.

He supposed there were worse vacations to be inflicted upon him.

Just as he grew tired of sitting still, and rose to pace, two men appeared, cloaked head to foot in black the same as Ardeth. One set a tray of food upon the table, and the other set a bundle of clothing upon the bed.

When they had gone, he examined the clothes. His own, from the single overnight bag he had taken on the plane. There had been at least three other bags. How, of all those choices, had they selected his very own? It was too much coincidence to think his bag alone had survived the crash.

Well, no matter for the moment. It could be innocuous. A double –oh knew better than anyone to be suspicious of everything…but also to know that not everything was suspicious. It was odd, but not necessarily threatening. Even he was hard pressed to be threatened by their selecting the proper luggage.

Stripping, he reached for the clothes—then abruptly froze. Waking up, he'd felt sore and stiff, but grateful that seemed the worst he'd suffered. He counted himself lucky to get out of any job with nothing more than scrapes and bruises. Too many of them required weeks of recuperation.

But the scar running along his left thigh, and now he saw another running the length of his left bicep—they looked new, still red and raw, but otherwise fully healed. Unless he had been unconscious much longer than he had initially thought, his wounds should not be so healed. The leg injury, at least, looked as though stitches would have been required.

The devil?

Making note of the question, he dressed quickly in the fresh clothes, then moved across the tent to the table and the wonderful-smelling food set upon it. He'd just taken his first bite when Ardeth returned, quiet and easy, but so there he may as well have been screaming and running.

"You seem to have fully recovered," Ardeth said with seeming idleness, but he did not seem the sort of man to say anything lightly.

James simply nodded. "Yes, and I thank you yet again. How long have I been unconscious?" He pushed up his sleeve to display the scar upon his bicep. "This is fully healed, yet I would not have thought myself to have been unconscious for more than a couple of days."

Something flickered in the those dark eyes. James could not interpret what that something was, but felt an instinctive urge to recoil…or perhaps move in for closer inspection. Such opposite reactions, but there they were. Danger, obviously. On some level, every double-oh was drawn to the danger.

"Three days, actually," Ardeth replied. "The wounds were not as bad as all that. You look as though you were made to endure, and we are not without skills in matters of wounds, here in the desert."

James did not believe it for a moment. He knew wounds; he knew his limits. "I want to know how long I've been here," he said coldly, but still politely. He pushed his food away. "Do not play me for a fool; that is not a mistake any man gets a chance to make twice."

The dark eyes went hard, but never flinched. Not once. Ardeth met his gaze like he was a man with nothing to fear. Not a trace of it was in his gaze. That James was not used to seeing. "You slept three days. We barely found you in time, and it is by the blessing of the gods alone you live. I am no liar, do not call me one, for that is a dishonor no man repeats twice in my presence."

James smiled, despite himself.

Ardeth smiled back—only slightly, only briefly, but it did wonders. James was never impressed by beauty, but for that fleeting moment he was tempted.

Then the solemn demeanor returned, that still quiet that James could not comprehend.

"So where am I, exactly?" James asked. He had lost complete track of their coordinates in the scuffle, and he suspected the pilot had disregarded the plotted course entirely, anyway.

"The Sahara," Ardeth replied.

James gave him a look. That was more than a little vague, and entirely unhelpful. Ardeth did not want him to know precisely where he was—security was the likeliest reason, but he was hardly any sort of threat. Then again, in Ardeth's position, he would not tell him anything either.

Ardeth smirked briefly in reply, and James conceded the round to him by returning to his food and eating with relish. He'd not had such food in more years than he could bother to count, and it was surprisingly good. Not eating for three days might partially responsible for his enthusiasm, but not wholly.

On the opposite side of the table, Ardeth sat still and silent, not watching him eat but not ignoring him either. James might have been unsettled, except he had endured far worse scrutiny. Being watched without malice was almost refreshing.

Though, something definitely made the air thick. Now that he'd noticed it, missing it was impossible. Ardeth harbored no hostility, but he did not harbor apathy either.

The silence was broken by the arrival of a man, and James realized they all had a soldier look about them. Not as though they were going into battle, exactly. More like they would not be surprised if they came across one.

He should have noticed it sooner, and was irritated that he had not—and curious. He seldom missed anything, why miss something so obvious?

The man said something, and Ardeth laughed, throwing his head back, body shaking with it. Then he shook his head, and motioned, and said something that had the flavor of an order in the tone. The man bowed, then vanished.

James realized with sudden, sharp irritation that part of the problem with his breathing might have to do with Ardeth's appearance.

Honestly, he was recovering from a plane crash and only God knew how many hours in the hot desert, the good Queen may or may not have already declared him legally dead—he should be well past something this juvenile.

Then again, greater problems had not kept him from enjoying himself in Singapore.

James smirked at the memory, and continued to eat.

A few minutes later, he began to feel unaccountably sleepy. He might have attributed it to his still needing a bit of recovery…except he had suffered far worse, and recovered fast, and he knew how it felt to be drugged.

Then the sleepiness went from bad to worse, and he glared as best he could at his host, who sat watching him, expression unreadable. "You drugged me," James said, feeling extremely insulted. "You speak of honor like something out of a novel, then drug me?"

"For your safety," Ardeth said, and moved slowly—so slowly, or likely that was the drugs now—to James' side of the table.

He fell back as the drugs won out, preferring to avoid falling over in his food, and felt a hand catch his head before it struck. Then black.

When he woke some time later, it was to a mild throbbing, the kind just strong enough to be irritating but not bad enough it was worth taking anything for it.

Though, when he recalled the reason for the headache, it immediately doubled. An urge to strangle someone always gave him a headache, usually because he knew he couldn't actually strange said aggravation.

It was night, and cold. They had at least seen he was adequately bundled when they dumped him back into his bed.

His safety, was it? James was many things, but a fool was not one of them. Not anymore. Not for a long time. Ardeth had lied about his wounds, no matter how prissy he got about his honor. Then there was the drugging.

So much for vacation.

A good or smart man might stay where he was obviously intended. James had never suffered over much from either affliction. Throwing back his blankets, he moved to the tent entrance and looked out.

Though it was obviously hard to tell in the dark, his impression was that the camp was largely deserted. Where did a group of men go in the middle of the night, in a desert? The obvious answer was to find trouble, or stop it, but what manner of trouble necessitated drugging him?

Well, if they thought he was some hapless, danger seeking idiot who didn't know how to control a plane…which, was half correct, at that…anyway, that was justification to drug him for his own good. However, Ardeth was not that stupid. He was obviously a leader, and a higher ranking one at that. No leader sat in the tent of a rescued man to watch over him. Such work was given to a soldier of slightly more minor rank.

If Ardeth had watched him, it was because he suspected James too dangerous to be handled by anyone else. Or he thought James pretty, but somehow James didn't think that was the reason.

Scowling, realizing belatedly this whole affair would be rather awkward without proper shoes, he stifled a sigh and abandoned his tent. If his host was going to insist upon seeing to his safety, James would at least do him the courtesy of suggesting he up the dosage.

Finding them wasn't hard. It was less being able to follow sound, which as tricky, and more the things of light that grew steadily stronger. Also, instinct. He had a talent for trouble, and either finding it or attracting it.

But what he found when he crested the last damned dune…

He had seen it all. Had experienced practically everything. Jaded and cynical was not an affectation; nothing phased him, not anymore. He'd run the gamut, from broken heart to so deep undercover he nearly got lost, from a point blank shot to the chest and head to delicate poisoning, from exotic mountain ranges to their depths, and back out into the sun and the sand. Nothing impressed him or surprised him anymore. James Bond, double oh seven, had seen it all.

Except it seemed he had not.

It had to be…a film set or something…except the blood and the shouts and the swords were far too real. Still, the…it must be mechanical or whatnot.

About twenty men were spread across the crumbled remains of a temple entrance, broken columns and worn down statues surrounding them. They were struggling against…James stared, and stared some more, then decided that either the drugging had affected him more than he realized, or he really was seeing a sphinx.

It was the size of an elephant, perhaps a trifle larger. Longer, leaner—nastier. True to all the old legends, it had the body of a lion, massive gold-brown wings, and the head and chest of a beautiful woman. The face was currently contorted with unbecoming rage, but James had never let a woman's anger keep him from appreciating her beauty.

Shaking his head, he ignored the beautiful bit of fantasy and focused on those things which made sense.

Ardeth was easy to mark out, though James could not say why. He and his men looked much the same, dressed in their plain black garb. Still, James saw him immediately, leading the group that was clearly keeping the Sphinx distracted and busy, locked in combat while the rest of his men did…something.

It seemed they were attempting to prepare, or perhaps repair, portions of the temple courtyard. It had to do with the half dozen broken columns framing the place, that much James could see. No one, so far, had noticed him. That was all to the good, as he needed a few more minutes to get his bearings. He was not used to dropping into the middle of a bad adventure movie.

A group of men seemed close to success, for their column flashed with golden light—but at the last moment, the sphinx abruptly veered off trying to bite Ardeth's head off and lunged at the column, obliterating it entirely.

Ardeth shouted something, voice carrying over the ruckus, and his men abruptly fell back. Four men motioned, raising their arms, and more of that golden light flashed. All twenty men abandoned the broken stones of the temple, spilling into the sand.

The sphinx, for James could see how it could be anything else, prowled the square in discontent. She was real enough, even if it hurt his head to acknowledge it. If nothing else, the jiggling of her ample bosom spoke of authenticity. Fake breasts never moved so; mechanical definitely did not.

Just as things seemed to calm, the sphinx made one of her sudden movements, throwing herself toward the assembled men—and still more golden light flashed, and she roared in pain, falling back into the center of the square.

Well, that was no way to treat a lady. Especially an angry one. Honestly, that's one came of living in a desert. Nothing but savagery, drugging good gentlemen of the Queen and caging exotic ladies in odd cages.

Sauntering down the sand, he walked leisurely toward the group. He was halfway to them when one finally spotted him, and called out.

Ardeth immediately whipped around, eyes widening in surprised for perhaps half a second. Then they narrowed, and snapped quick, rough orders to his men.

Three of them ran toward James—seeking, obviously, to disable him. James waited until they were close enough to think they had it, then ducked and swung out, catching the first straight in the nose. He grabbed the second and threw him into the third, then shoved them both into the sand.

Eschewing taking a sword for himself, he walked on.

More of the men made to attack him, but another softly spoken but still clearly heard word from Ardeth stopped them short.

James walked through the small crowd as it parted for him. He smirked as he reached Ardeth, and paused just long enough to drawl, "The next time you want to keep me in bed, Ardeth, try something more interesting than drugs."

Ardeth snatched his arm just as he passed, yanking him back, and his strength momentarily took James' breath away—from sheer surprise. He was not used to people taking him by surprise, or overpowering him even the slightest. Not unless they were cheating.

"Do not approach her," Ardeth said in his quiet, firm way. "They go savage after a time, with nothing left to protect. We can do nothing more than put her back to sleep."

James pulled his arm free. "Do they not teach you Arabian knights how to treat a lady?" Then he walked on, wondering if he would walk into an invisible barrier or something equally absurd.

He did not, though felt an odd sensation, like his entire body was brushed with the softest of bristles.

The sphinx growled and stalked toward him, obviously tensing to spring at James and make of him a midnight snack.

James simply stopped, and met her giant eyes, keeping his eyes off the most enormous breasts he had ever seen only because he was thoroughly trained, and knew when not to get caught staring.

She paused, and stared back, making a growling sound that would have been quite the turn-on, had he thought they were remotely compatible. He preferred not to find out.

"Good evening," James said, and sketched the sort of elegant half-bow that had gone out of fashion centuries ago, but which he thought might suit the occasion—and which would probably cause M to finally die of the heart attack she courted.

Still growling, but with what he knew to be more curiosity than anger, she padded toward him, breasts swaying, heavy gold jewelry gleaming, dark hair making him grateful he would not be asked to comb it for her, please darling, won't you?

James simply continued to meet her gaze.

"Now, darling," he drawled after a moment, "I know you have been treated abominably. They're not worth the effort, though, trust me. Bad dates, the lot of them. You're better off taking a bit of a nap, and waiting until something better looking and in possession of manners comes along. Hmm, poppet?"

He sincerely doubted she understood a word he said, but she was also far from the first woman to be charmed despite a language barrier.

She growled one last time, and knelt long enough to obviously smell him, and her eyes even in the weak light of the torches were the color of the sky.

Then she abruptly turned, and padded back into the depths of the old temple.

James turned, and sauntered back the way he had come. He stopped beside Ardeth, and smirked in the way that always set M off. "That is how you treat a lady, hmm?"

Ardeth stared at him, and James was too bewildered and amused by the situation to bother denying that the way those eyes looked hot with anger went straight to his cock. Hopelessly immature and irresponsible, but if ever there were adjectives used to describe him…

Breaking their locked gaze, Ardeth called out several sharp words to his men, who vanished immediately, going back the way James had come to find them.

Then Ardeth grabbed him arm, holding tight enough that James could not break free—another surprise, and he was only mildly embarrassed to admit that went straight to his cock as well. He was half-led, half-dragged back to the camp.

Not, however, to his tent. Instead he was dragged to what was obviously the primary tent in the camp. It was larger, and more lavishly appointed as they strode inside. Ardeth roughly let him go, and stripped out of most of his clothes, remaining only in the simple robe in which James had first met him. His hair was disheveled, wavy, a perfect match for the face, the eyes, the marks upon those cheeks.

"You had no business leaving camp," Ardeth said. "That was not your problem to address." His voice was level, but the anger and fury were in it plain enough. Even in this, he moved slowly, deliberately. No motion was wasted.

James shrugged. "I addressed it, and despite your efforts to keep me asleep. The problem is resolved, what does who and how matter?"

"It was not your affair," Ardeth repeated, removing his sword belt, combing a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. He stalked across the tent, standing close enough to touch, and James realized that for all Ardeth was a bit shorter, he did not really seem it. Presence made up for height. "You know nothing of our ways here, and you do not undermine my authority."

"I undermine my own boss all the time," James drawled. "One of these days, she will put out an order to take my head, with a small country to go to the victor. I still undermine her authority. I'm certainly not going to hesitate to undermine yours. For that sort of courtesy, you have to be much prettier."

Something hot flashed through the dark eyes, and James suddenly wondered just how much of his immaturity and irresponsibility was mutual.

Ardeth tilted his head up just slightly, in a challenge and invitation as old as time. "I get the feeling that, had I left you to bleed to death in the sand, precious few would have been displeased."

"You likely would have been offered that small country," James said, moving just the slightest bit closer. "Just as well you did not leave me, seeing as you cannot handle one angry woman."

"I do not appreciate your interference," Ardeth said, still angry, but with other things now sparking in his eyes. James could not tell if it was that Ardeth had moved so slowly, he had not noticed the very slight movements until too late, or if he had moved too quickly to be truly followed, but suddenly they were close enough to share breath if they wanted.

James glared back. "I do not appreciate being drugged."

"You would have stayed in your tent, else," Ardeth replied. "It takes only a moment to realize that."

"Well, I concede that point, but I still resent being drugged," James said. "You still have not told me how I healed so quickly. Secrets and deception—you have no call getting angry because I'm better with women."

Ardeth smirked in his turn. "Men that smooth with women, I have found, are overcompensating for the fact they have no idea what do with a man."

There was only one proper response to that insult, and James gave it. Ardeth tasted like the desert, with a hint of the same spices which had colored James' food earlier. Hot, in more ways than one. Ardeth lived in the desert, and moved like snow, but his kiss was all lightning.

James grunted as the backs of his legs hit something, but went more or less agreeably when he was shoved. When, precisely, had Ardeth taken control of the kiss—of the entire situation. Still, it was hard to complain when the kisses were hard and jolting, and the weight pressing him into the bedding was satisfyingly heavy without crushing him, and the calloused hands upon him knew very damned well what they were doing.

He put his own hands to use, working deftly at Ardeth's clothing, pushing them out of the way to get at the dusky skin, stroking over impressive muscle and numerous scars, distracted from his exploration only by a sharp bite to his throat. Turning his head, he caught Ardeth's mouth for another kiss.

Ardeth fondled him through his pants, movements impressively knowing for a desert-bound savage.

"Where did you learn to do this?" James asked. "Close to some of your men?"

He'd said it to provoke, and succeeded, grunting in pain a Ardeth bit at his bottom lip. "You are more obnoxious in bed than even my American friend," Ardeth replied.

James narrowed his eyes. "That was wholly uncalled for."

Ardeth smirked, and sucked on the lip so recently bitten, before drawing him in to another lightning-storm kiss, shoving into James' trousers to grab proper hold of his cock, tugging and stroking.

Determined to retaliate despite the distractions, James fought to push Ardeth away enough to get at him properly—but that surprising strength from before returned, holding him firmly in place, capturing one of his wrists and pinning it to the bed.

James made one more effort to struggle free, then gave up and let the desert have him.

Have him, Ardeth did. James had enjoyed more lovers than he could count or recall, but he knew none of them had Ardeth's talent. Like a storm, steady at first, then a burst of thunder and lightning, striking so hard and fast James anticipated a number of bruises come morning.

Anticipated with relish, sinking a hand into Ardeth's hair and dragging him down for another kiss as two fingers pushed inside him, wasting no time in stretching him, readying him with splendid skill. Good enough James did not even resent being on the receiving end. Those occasions he could remember, to every last details. Three of the five—six, now, he supposed—were even still alive.

When Ardeth finally pushed inside him, the world went still for a moment. James rather thought it must be Ardeth's stillness, experience firsthand. The calm at the center of the storm, and if he were not already so hard it hurt, he would have been then.

"Is this how to ensure you stay where I put you, next time?" Ardeth asked, smirking, teeth scrapping as he tasted James' jaw, throat, still so infuriating still inside him. Honestly, if they weren't fucking, James would kill him.

Still, he would never fail to reply to a taunt. "If this were enough to make me stay where someone put me, I likely would not be here."

Ardeth laughed, and kissed him—then jerked away and began abruptly to move, pulling nearly all the way out before thrusting back in hard, setting a driving pace that was exactly the way James liked it. He could not say later who came first, only remember the heat, the force, the way those dark eyes seared, the sweat that made the dusky skin glisten, the way Ardeth looked in pleasure.

When everything finally calmed down a bit, Ardeth kissed him slow and easy. Almost lazily, he would have thought, except Ardeth did not seem the type capable of laziness.

James groaned as Ardeth pulled out of him, already feeling indications of the aches and pains that would greet him in the morning. At least they were pleasantly gained, and would serve as delightful reminders for the next couple of days.

"Remind me," he said with a yawn, "to fall out of planes and do your job better than you more often."

Ardeth made a derisive noise. "You people. I received word shortly after you went to sleep that someone will be waiting for you upon your return to your preferred manner of civilization. Do you know how to ride a horse, or are you as poor with them as with planes?"

"Oh, I know how to ride," James replied, fondling briefly to make clear he fully intended the double entendre.

"That is good to know," Ardeth said, eyes sliding closed, arm a heavy but not unpleasant weight draped over James.

He did not normally sleep with anyone, too used to people trying to assault his person while he dared to try and get some rest. Ardeth was safe enough, however, and he was not opposed to someone doing a bit of riding before he was returned to civilization.

*~*~*

"So who is meeting me?" James finally asked as they approached the appointed place.

"An American friend of mine," Ardeth said, a smirk flitting across his mouth. "The one aforementioned, oddly enough. He was here finishing some business…much the same as yours, I would imagine."

James quirked a brow. "I never stated my business."

Ardeth laughed. "My friend, I know your sort. I am not so far from it, after all. I simply deal in more esoteric troubles. Anyway, the American is one I know well, and if he said he was being sent to fetch you, then you must have certain things in common."

"As you say," James conceded lightly. "After flirting with a sphinx, my life suddenly seems much easier." He looked over their surrounding by habit, taking in the people, the buildings, the emotions on the air…the dusty jeep only a few meters away, behind the wheel of which sat an all too familiar figure.

The man in the jeep laughed, and swung gracefully out, walking toward them. Sunglasses hid his eyes, but James would know that aggravatingly cheerful smile anywhere, even in a pitch-dark room.

"Well, well, what have we here? If I'd known it was you I was fetching, Bond, I would have refused. Or brought more duct tape."

James summoned his lord of the manner attitude that he knew annoyed MacGyver like nothing else in the world. "If I had known you were my liaison, I would have remained in the desert a bit longer. Get near me with any duct tape, and it will be you lost in the sand."

Ardeth looked between them, and laughed. "So you are in the same business, and are even friends."

"Calling the Phoenix Foundation the same business as working for her Majesty," James said haughtily, "is like claiming being a butler is the same thing as being lord of the manner."

MacGyver grinned. "I agree. Butlers run the house and clean up the lord's messes. What do you do besides stand around trying to look pretty and making said messes?"

James smirked. "Someone is still irate about Singapore and Switzerland."

"Oh, I think I evened us out in China, Bond."

Ardeth chuckled and shook his head. "These are stories I shall have to hear, before I must return to my people."

MacGyver finally turned his attention to Ardeth. "Good to see you again. I guess I should say thank you for saving him."

"My impression is that you are the only one who will thank me."

"Probably."

James rolled his eyes, and snatched MacGyver's keys from his hands, then strode to the jeep. "As I am a proper gentlemen, I would of course be willing to buy lunch—but not if you keep standing there gossiping about me."

Ardeth rolled his eyes.

"There are ways of making him less insufferable," MacGyver said idly as they climbed into the jeep with him, reclining lazily in the back as though the entire situation were perfectly normal. James supposed it was, really.

"I have found some of them," Ardeth said.

James drove, calling up his memories of the city for good places to eat, pointedly ignoring his companions as they talked with the familiarity of old friends about the various ways of getting James Bond to shut up and do as he was told.

Hopefully, none of it would reach M. He wouldn't put it past her to hire someone to do it whenever he got out of line.


End file.
